It’s not obvious that I used to be one of those disaffected, law-breaking punk rockers with a mouthful of complaints and dreams of anarchistic splendor who had yet to taste the complexities of adulthood to fully understand the gravity of her convictions. And yet, I still believe this is exactly what anyone insulated by youth should do.
But now those days are long past, and I fully accept that the planet revolves around multinational corporations and bad pop music. All I can do to prevent myself from being vacuumed up "Space Balls" style is to say “Oh bondage, up yours!” and start a band. Fortunately, for the well-being of punk music, my band broke up in 1998, the same year it began. So I can’t rightly challenge the claim that music reviewers are just failed musicians. But the Dollyrots--proper grown-ups, exposed to all the pleasures and burdens of adulthood--formed in 2000, spurred by George Bush’s electoral win as proof that the apocalypse had commenced. At least one good thing came of his poorly navigated reign.
Florida natives Kelly Ogden, Luis Cabezas, and Chris Black of now L.A.-based the Dollyrots, play punch-the-gut pop-punk inflated with positive messages of independence (“Brand New Key”) and self-love (“Because I’m Awesome”), and a healthy dose of goofball humor - characteristics that have earned them popularity with big names like Radio Disney and the teenager-targeting department store Kohls.
All things considered--a deal or two with corporate giants, shameless self-promotion, a bubblegum-sweet punk chick, and some uninspired Avril Lavigne-esque "we-trash-malls-and-Ameican-Idol-rehearsals" music videos--the Dollyrots are charming and worth seeing in concert if only to personally witness the drummer making silly faces and hear Kelly, in a Joan Jett tee and a black tutu, telling drunk vagrants who grab her leggings during a performance to “Piss off! This isn’t a strip club!” before smiling sweetly at the crowd and not missing a beat, launching into a song about roller-skating as a legitimate form of transportation.
Buzzcocks’ performance felt like a warp-speed Beatles show, perhaps saving the cutting edge, Sex Pistols-like physical energy and raunchy quips for later in the tour. And given that lead singer Pete Shelley was sporting special black faux-leather Velcro orthopedic shoes--which, tragically, characterized him as adorable rather than punk rock--the expectation that they have quelled since their 1980s heyday was met.
The crowd was rowdy enough, however, compensating for the band’s (forgivable) stiffness. Giddy cougars skirted the stage armed with cameras and lipstick, splintering through the crowd like crows feet on a carefree wrinkle-cream free day. One full-grown cougar and a young cub even tried to fight to the death on the dance floor before getting trapped by a wildlife expert and escorted back to the zoo.
The show was loud - so loud that Shelley’s voice was barely audible over the crashes and grindings of the other instruments, muffling the one characteristic of Buzzcocks' music that distinguishes them from your average 80s Brit-punk: poetic honesty.
Pete Shelley, born Peter Campbell McNeish, adopted the last name from what his parents' planned to call him had he been born a girl. Also, it is rumored that his fondness of the name stems from its relation to the English Romantic poet, Percy Shelley.
Cock, by the way, in this context, is Manchester slang for “bloke.” Buzzcocks roughly translates to “excited lads,” though I’m sure they are aware of the variable connotations.
With almost no between-song banter (in fact, every song linked seamlessly into the next) or showy posturing to confirm the mood of the band, Buzzcocks conveyed joy, sincerity, and unassuming confidence while their fans, intoxicated by heat and booze, fought and yelled and (again, forgivably) abandoned all composure, retreating temporarily into the safe and pure insulation of youth.
